


Hold My Hand, Guide Me Through

by b_ofdale_archive (b_ofdale)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Fingon finds him and tries to help, M/M, Maedhros gets lost in a weird forest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-08-31 13:37:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8580604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_ofdale/pseuds/b_ofdale_archive
Summary: "Maedhros couldn't say how long it had been since he had left. But he was tired, and somehow his steps had taken him here, as if he had been in the fog of dreams; he had just wanted to be away, for a little while, and it hadn't mattered where he’d find peace, as long as he found it."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my amazing friend [Iza](http://piyo-13.tumblr.com) for the editing, as always! <33
> 
> **Additional tags in the End Notes.**

Birds flew away in a cacophony of cries and flapping of wings as Maedhros stepped foot inside the forest. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder, put his hand on the hilt of the sword hanging from his belt, and took a deep breath. He wiped a lock of red hair of his face and tucked it behind his ear before walking on.

Maedhros didn't know why he was here, exactly. He just knew he had woken in the middle of the night, sweaty and breathing heavily; it had been like suffocating, for no apparent reason. His sleep had been a peaceful one, for no dreams had shaken it, and yet as his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, the room had felt smaller and the air warmer than they really were.

He had left a note saying he would be gone for a few days and then he had vanished out the door, disappearing like a ghost in the night.

Time had flown fast from there on, and he couldn't say how long it had been since he had left. But he was tired, and somehow his steps had taken him here, as if he had been in the fog of dreams; he had just wanted to be away, for a little while, and it hadn't mattered where he’d find peace, as long as he found it.

Maedhros didn't know _where_ he was, either, but still he kept walking forward, towards the forest that spread before him, huge and gloomy. 

Inside it was dark, and cold, and nothing like he had ever seen before—and he had seen many things, in his life. The trees were high and proud and twisted, their roots a complicated maze across the ground. Strange flowers bloomed between them and amongst large leaves and high grass, and everything, everything seemed on the verge of sickness, though not quite yet dying.

The place seemed frozen in time, right between glorious days and looming decay.

Perhaps it would have been wiser to turn back and go around it, or better; walk back to his people. But there was something that made Maedhros keep moving, driven by the strange need to cross the strange forest. 

_Cross it._

And so Maedhros walked on, and as he progressed he started to wonder what he was doing here, without quite feeling like he could stop and leave.

Missing. Something was missing.

Or was it forgotten?

There were more trees than Maedhros could count, all looking the same and yet so different. What a strange, strange place it was. It made him wonder, just for an instant, if he was awake—but he had to be; he could feel the air against his skin, the wind through his hair, and the pain in his wrist, the ground under his feet.

Later, he stumbled across a path of stones, which he followed until it disappeared. The forest spread before him, as if it knew no end, and the sun pierced so little through the canopy of the trees that Maedhros couldn't tell for how long he had been there, nor what time it was. It grew on him, the idea the place was out of time, and perhaps a bit magical; it made his hand clench harder on his sword, for if there was magic here, Maedhros didn't know whether it was good, or bad magic. The light fought the dark, and the dark fought the light, and Maedhros couldn't say which was winning over the other.

Maedhros kept on going forward nonetheless, driven by a soft strength he couldn't find the will to fight against. It didn't feel like it needed to be avoided, or defended against. Or perhaps he simply didn't wish to; he wasn't so sure anymore.

When a stream cut his path, Maedhros stopped. He crouched at the water's edge, cupping his hand to drink from it; it was ice cold, and he felt the bite of it as it went through his throat and by his lungs. He stood, and breathed in hard again before stepping in the stream, uncaring of the water wetting his clothes and getting in his boots.

He felt eager to cross though, and it was at a faster pace that Maedhros crossed the water, until his feet met dry ground again. He shook his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes. There had been a change in the air, a feeling in his gut, and then it had vanished as fast as the wind rolled through a window before one closed it.

He wasn't sure whether or not he liked this peculiar place, but—

That's when he heard it. Maedhros froze, forgetting all about the doubts that had been creeping their way into his thoughts.

“Finally,” the voice said. “I've found you!”

And Maedhros saw him. 

Findekáno, Fingon.

Maedhros’ heart beat faster at the sight of him. He was dressed in a blue travelling tunic, a cape hanging from his shoulders and his bow slung across his back. His hair was tied back in a braid of black and gold which lay on his shoulder, and two more, not as large, framing his face.

“You found—you were looking for me? Why?” Maedhros asked, and Fingon looked upon him as if he was talking nonsense.

“Because I love you,” Fingon answered, and got closer, taking Maedhros' hand before lifting it up so he could leave a kiss upon it, “Why wouldn't I; there is nowhere you could go where I wouldn't follow, if I could.”

This time Maedhros smiled, for Fingon's love was a bright thing he wasn't sure he deserved, but couldn't ignore. He murmured, “Of course, what was I thinking.”

At this Fingon smiled in turn, and he gestured to the maze that was the forest. “Where are we going?”

“Anywhere,” Maedhros said, and he realised that was fine, that was alright, as long as Fingon was with him.

And as he looked down to him, Maedhros realised the feeling of something missing was just a little lighter, and he didn't understand how he could have forgotten about Fingon, for if Fingon’s love was bright, then Maedhros' was strong, and both were limitless. He could not forget about him. Ever.

It was Fingon who lead the way from there, walking slowly but surely amongst and under the high roots of the wild trees, though always he glanced Maedhros' way, and Maedhros couldn't tear his own eyes off of him.

Maedhros felt like he was seeing Fingon for the first time, and words were lost to him.

It was like that for a while.

“You don't talk much,” Fingon said later, as he jumped over a fallen trunk, upon which he then sat.

“What is there to say?” Maedhros said. His throat was dry, but talking didn’t feel so hard, in the end. Talking to Fingon had always been easy, even where there was nothing to talk about.

Fingon patted the space besides him. “You could start with why you've run off like you have, or you could say that you missed me.” His laugh was light; it was soft, it was like a song.

“I did miss you,” Maedhros replied as he sat, and searched for Fingon's hand. He turned it in his own, traced its lines and caressed it from the tip of his thumb. “But I wanted some time alone, some air away from—everything.”

“So you came here?”

“Yes,” he said. “But where is here?”

Fingon looked around. He didn't seem to know, either. “I don't know, it's the first time I’ve been here.”

“I'd rather know where we are—what, why am I even—”

He faced Maedhros, to put a finger over his mouth. “Take it as an adventure. Isn't it why you left?”

“No, I've had my fair share of adventures,” Maedhros said, taking Fingon's hand back. “I just wanted some peace.”

“It is rather peaceful.”

“But it’s dark.”

“Is it really?” Fingon said, looking around curiously, and he was like the child he had once been.

And as he did Maedhros understood that no, it wasn't so dark. It certainly wasn't the way Fingon had meant it, but how could it be dark when Fingon had always been the brightest of lights to him?

“I missed you,” Maedhros repeated, and he leaned against Fingon's side. How long had it been since they had last seen each other? He couldn't remember—why couldn't he remember?—but it had to be long, for he had forgotten what it was like to have Fingon close to him, to hear his voice, to share his touch.   

“I missed you, too,” Fingon replied, and he softly closed his arm around Maedhros' waist.

For a moment they sat there, in the dark forest out of time, sharing only warmth and breaths, and Maedhros couldn’t think of anything else he might want.

Under the light pressure of Fingon's thumb rubbing slow circles over his tunic on his hip, Maedhros closed his eyes.

It was like coming home, and for a moment Maedhros thought he was sitting on one of the benches in the gardens of Valinor, Fingon's head on his lap and the softness of Fingon’s hair between his fingers as he braided it with gold.

He took a deep breath, and when he opened his eyes again, the darkness was still all around, but Fingon was, too. He was smiling, and his hand now lay motionless over Maedhros'. With his other hand he raised Maedhros' stump to his mouth, and left a kiss upon it.

It made Maedhros crack a smile.

“Come on,” Fingon said, squeezing Maedhros' fingers and standing up. “Let's go.”

Together they stood, and Maedhros followed Fingon's steps.

They saw many things as they walked amongst the trees, but Maedhros had eyes for Fingon only. Even when deer crossed their path, and birds flew close over their heads, all he could see was the wonder on Fingon's face and the brightness of the smiles that were sent his way.

Maedhros barely registered that it was Fingon who led him, as if he knew which path to take, and what to do or say to make his lips form smiles that still felt foreign to him.

And then Fingon stopped, faced him, and he was making the same face he’d made when he hadn't been able to shake the excitement off on Maedhros' begetting day, many, many years ago, when he had prepared a surprise for him, in secret from both their families.

“What is it?” Maedhros asked.

Fingon didn't answer, but gestured for him to follow. 

Maedhros saw it before Fingon could point at it. It was a tree, taller than any other around it, high and proud and very much alive.

“What do you think?”

“How did you know it was here?” Maedhros asked.

“I—just caught a glimpse of it,” Fingon said. “I thought you should see it.”

“Why?”

Fingon seemed to ponder the question for an instant, and when he answered he linked his fingers with Maedhros' again, looking up to him with kind eyes. “Because it stands strong, when everything is getting sick around it. But look—”

Fingon lead him closer, pointed to the branches of the tree. Some of them had rotted, and fallen to the ground like leaves would fall when winter came.

“Are you saying it should let itself die?” Maedhros asked, brows furrowed. 

“No,” Fingon said, and he pointed again, showing Maedhros how life was growing again where it had left before. “I'm saying it is alright, to let go of things that weigh us down so that we can carry on.”

Maedhros stared into his eyes, not knowing exactly what he searched for, and finding nothing anyways; in Fingon's gaze there was only his usual honesty, and the soft light of a strong love. Then Maedhros' eyes shifted to the tree, and he looked at it, and he carved Fingon's words into his mind, until he could do nothing but look back at him.

“But before that, there is much that I have to show you, and tell you.”

Slowly, Maedhros raised his hand, brushing Fingon's cheek like he would a child; fragile, breakable, though Fingon was neither of those things.

“Why are you so good to me?” Maedhros asked.

“Because I love you,” Fingon answered.

Fingon caught his hand, and with a smile he led Maedhros onwards again, not letting go until the path was clearer and they could walk side by side, bodies brushing. Fingon talked much now, and Maedhros was glad to listen to all he had to say, watching him with fondness, and Fingon’s presence soothed him more than anything else in the world.

Maedhros watched Fingon, and Fingon watched Maedhros, and in Fingon's eyes he saw the same as he felt, and this brought all the comfort he couldn't find in himself, for there had always been a shared knowledge worth more than words could say; Fingon loved him, and he loved Fingon just as much, and there was nothing that would ever change that—no matter how hard it was to believe at times, when the strength of his mind failed him.

And this love they shared, it was beautiful, and it was cursed; for there wasn't a world Maedhros could imagine without Fingon in it. Even the mere thought was enough to make him stop. He winced at a sharp pain in his chest. His eyes got lost in the midst of his thoughts, and only then did Maedhros notice he hadn't drunk, or eaten, since he had stepped inside the forest.

But then Fingon's voice faded until there was only silence, and a wave of cold washed over Maedhros. It took no more to get him back to himself, remember where he was.

He was alone, once again.

Where was Fingon?

Maedhros looked around frantically, eyes darting wild in hopes of catching a flash of blue or gold, the brightness of his smile or the purity of his laugh. But there was none, and the forest was darker than he thought it had been now that Fingon had left his side, and he felt as if all living things were watching him and holding their breaths.

And suddenly Maedhros was scared, and he was lost, and he didn't remember what had brought him here, and where he came from.

The trees were tall and the maze never ending, and he couldn't see the light, and the darkness was swallowing him whole.

Where was Fingon? Where had he gone?

Maedhros wandered, searching for Fingon, anything that would lead back to him. He searched, but there was nothing. Only the darkness.

He closed his eyes, waiting to drown.

Then he remembered Fingon's words, and the high tree, and he took a deep breath; he could go on, get out of the dark, and then he would find Fingon again.

And as Maedhros thought this he saw him, he saw Fingon, walking back towards him, as though he had never really left.

“Where were you?” Maedhros exclaimed, throwing his arms up in the air.

He then kneeled upon the ground, burying his head in his hand. Standing up was too much.

“I'm sorry,” Fingon breathed, and he was crouching before Maedhros now, laying his hands upon his shoulders. Then his fingers were tracing the lines of Maedhros' face, caressing scars and tucking locks of hair behind his ear. “I'm here.”

Then there were lips that he knew well upon his own, and Maedhros thought he might cry at the the touch and taste of them, and all anger was gone—but had it even been anger? 

No, no it had not; never could he be angry at Fingon.

“Please don't leave again,” Maedhros said, and their lips were still brushing.

“I will try,” Fingon said. There was so much will in his voice that Maedhros felt his desperate hope, as much as he heard it.

In that moment, somehow, Maedhros found that trying was enough, perhaps more than they should be allowed, and so he nodded, before following Fingon into standing. But still, he wondered—

“What are you not telling me?”

But Fingon didn't reply, and that way, Maedhros knew he would get no answer.

They walked on in silence, though the silence wasn't an uncomfortable one. They came across the stream again, and Fingon insisted they find a way around it, and Maedhros couldn't refuse, if it meant more time with Fingon.

They had eternity, and yet it never seemed to be enough, for death could take them sooner than later; Maedhros had seen enough death to care about the passing of time, no matter how fast it went to Elves. 

Sometimes it even seemed to never end.

And all this, it felt like years unnumbered, spent walking by Fingon's side, holding his hand, braiding his hair, listening to his breath at night, in the darkness of the forest. But it was alright, it was alright, for he wasn't alone.

They searched for a way to exit the forest, but always Fingon found a reason to stay longer; he had always something to show or something to wait for, and Maedhros yielded to him, for there was nothing he could refuse Fingon, and he couldn't remember why he wanted to go back—why he _had_ to go back.

But then Maedhros breathed in deep, and he forgot, and he saw only Fingon.

Eventually Maedhros reached into one of his satchels, and offered Fingon a lembas, which he refused with a short shake of his head.

He didn't share Maedhros' waterskin either, and the more they walked and the more time flew by, the more Maedhros wondered, wandering in the fogs of doubts. He realized Fingon had never fed himself, in all the time they had been there.

There was something wrong. 

There had to be, and he had always known without being able (or wanting?) to figure it out. 

He was being fooled.

“You know how to get out of here, don't you?” said Maedhros, when he’d had enough. 

He had made them stop under one of the many ill trees. A ray of sunlight, soft and unique, fell between them like a barrier. 

“Maitimo—”

“Don't you?” Maedhros repeated, more harshly than he had meant to.

Fingon only stared, but eventually he sighed, and nodded. “Yes,” he said.

“Take me there.”

“You don't understand,” Fingon said, almost pleading. “I’m not done—”

“Weren't you the one talking about letting go?” Maedhros said, locking his eyes to Fingon's. He didn’t know why, but he knew that was what he had to do. “Take me there, Finno.”

“Yes,” Fingon murmured. “Believe me, I would have let you go--I just needed some more time, not much. But if you really wish to leave now, then I shall guide you. It is not far.”

And Fingon guided him, and again no words were exchanged. Fingon kept his head down, looking at the ground, while Maedhros dreaded the reality he might have to face to leave the forest.

He couldn’t help but take Fingon's hand.

Fingon looked up to him, and there was the ghost of a smile on his lips, and even with sadness in his eyes he was beautiful.

Then the trees grew scarcer, until there were none, and Maedhros saw the setting light of the sun, and by the forest's edge were the same statues as when he had stepped inside it. Fingon had brought him back the way he had come, and nothing had changed since then, except the colour of the sky.

It had only been a day. Perhaps less, even. 

It had been nothing. Just a blink.

It all crushed him, and Maedhros understood what the forest had done to him, and he remembered.

Maedhros turned, facing Fingon, and he hoped, he hoped so hard, that he would smile, and say that it was alright. But it wasn’t, and Fingon said nothing. 

It hurt. It hurt, perhaps as much as when it had happened. 

It hurt, so much that Maedhros’ knees started shaking, but still, he stood tall.

Silence stretched, until Fingon took one step forward, before stopping as though he couldn’t go any further. Maedhros hated the sorrow in his eyes.

“You cannot follow, can you?” Maedhros whispered. His voice was broken.

The look on Fingon's face was enough of an answer.

“All is not lost, Maitimo,” Fingon said instead. “Do you remember, now?”

Yes, he did, he did. Everything. He had never really forgotten, no matter what the magic of the forest had tried to tell him; somehow he had always known this had been nothing but an illusion. He remembered the oath, the deaths, the twins who were the reason a part of him had wanted to leave, all this time. He remembered Fingon, and he winced as he closed his eyes hard, clenched his hand into a fist, nails digging into his palm.

“It was my fault,” Maedhros said, opening his eyes and looking straight at him, and it wasn't a murmur, it wasn't a shadow. “It was my fault.”

“It was,” Fingon said, and before Maedhros could say or do anything he had held up his hand, and he looked like the King he had fallen as. “But how could I not forgive you?”

“Why would you?” Maedhros asked, and the bitterness of his voice burned his tongue. “You're gone because of me.”

“Because I love you.”

“And that's why you died.”

“And that's why I forgive you, too,” Fingon said, and this time his tone was almost pleading. “Won't you believe me? Won’t you remember all that I have told you here?”

Maedhros didn't answer; he looked down to his hand, brushed the ruined skin of his stump as he let out a heavy breath.

“It is just an illusion, Finno,” Maedhros said in a whisper. “You're just an illusion, and I'm a fool.”

Still looking down, Maedhros reached for him, but this time all his fingers met was smoke.

He didn't want to—couldn't—see the pain Fingon's face must have borne, but Maedhros heard his name called.

“I'm sorry,” Maedhros murmured, and then, he walked away, head high but heart heavy, and the weight of a thousand regrets on his shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> **Additional tag: Major Character Death**
> 
>  
> 
> I purposely left a lot open to interpretation :) but I got the idea while watching the Desolation of Smaug. The scene in the extended edition about the enchanted stream in Mirkwood and Bilbo seeing a copy of himself afterwards really inspired me.
> 
> (I totally stole the title from one of Luke Evans' Instagram pictures. I was looking for a title back when I started writing this fic, and whoop! Thanks for the caption Luke, just what I needed! Totally unrelated but listen it was perfect.)
> 
> Nothing makes me happier than comments!! Thank you so much for reading! :D
> 
> Find me on Tumblr [here](http://barduil.tumblr.com)!


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